


Dedicate Your Hands

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Stands (JoJo), Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 4: Diamond is Unbreakable, Light Angst, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Yoshikage Kira yearned for a quiet life.  Commander Erwin Smith’s was anything but.  So when Kira is transplanted into the latter’s body, he’ll need to learn to lead the Scouts while hiding his insatiable bloodlust, all while under the suspicious eye of his captain.  Will any woman’s hands be safe?
Relationships: Hange Zoë & Levi, Hange Zoë & Levi & Erwin Smith, Levi & Erwin Smith, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert & Eren Yeager
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Dedicate Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at the beginning of the Female Titan arc. The only JoJo character you need to know about is Yoshikage Kira, a serial killer with a hand fetish

Yoshikage Kira awoke to another fine spring day. The warm sunlight washed over his face, clean and taut from last night’s extensive moisturizing routine, and the distant call of a bird floated through the window. He didn’t even have to look at his alarm clock to know it had been another eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, ready for another Thursday. He couldn’t hear the waves crashing against the shoreline as he normally did, but it must have been low tide.

“Atten- _ tion _ ! Forward march!”

His eyes narrowed. Had he forgotten to turn the television off? Impossible. He would never waste the electricity.

“Williams! Eyes forward!”

He shot upwards, heart pounding, and pressed his face to the window. It looked not upon the sapphire blue Morioh seas, but a dirt plot filled with people in tan jackets marching in lines. Dust choked the air and Kira instinctively wrinkled his nose. In the distance crude stone buildings stumbled over each other to crowd out the sky like crooked, stained teeth. 

_ What kind of god-awful nightmare is this?! _

Kira stumbled out of bed and onto the floor, gouged wooden beams not polished to the standard he normally kept his bedroom, and with a gasp took in the frightful transformation. It was a tiny room, barely bigger than his closet, with one tiny window and a single scratched door. The dingy walls were in desperate need of a new coat of paint. Where was his four-poster bed, the priceless Klimt oil painting, his state-of-the-art stereo system? They were gone, replaced by a splintered wooden chair and a rustic desk stacked high with papers. No, not rustic. Rustic was charming. This was austere.

Kira tore away the sheets that had tangled around his legs. How had he not realized before, when these were coarse, scratchy, and barely 200-count? He shuddered at the thought of a night spent on this bed. He only slept on the finest Egyptian cotton.

_ Calm down _ , Kira told himself.  _ You’re still dreaming, you’ll wake up soon _ . He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, counting to eight like his childhood psychiatrist had taught him, and then exhaled for another eight. He repeated this twice, his surge of panic beginning to soften. Now, when he opened his eyes, his bedroom would be back and he’d be sitting on his plush carpet and listening to the gentle music of Morioh morning radio...

Nothing. Still the same god-awful room. Where was he, in a peasant’s farm in the nineteenth century? A bead of sweat rolled down his back, soaking into the shirt that was certainly not silk. On to the next tactic. Kira pinched himself. Though the pain was clear and sharp, his position did not change.  _ Fuck! _

He looked at his hands and bile rose in his throat. His nails, though he’d trimmed them carefully the night before, were overgrown. Five millimeters, by his estimation, far too long to show in public and also a sure sign the urge was not far off. He watched them begin to tremble, needing his clippers and a graceful slender neck to crush between them.

But something was off. There was a faint scar down the back of his left hand, one he didn’t have before. Kira turned it over, watching the hand in front of him react just like it was his own. The palms were calloused, like a laborer’s, instead of smooth and pale like they were supposed to be, and that caused a fresh wave of suffocating panic.

“Killer Queen!” he shouted. His Stand would fix this. It would blow up this disgusting dream and then Kira would wake up as usual in his own bed. He thought of the delicious breakfast he would cook for the fresh, only hours-old severed hands waiting for him at the villa, fingernails painted an unchipped scarlet, and smiled.

Nothing happened. Killer Queen did not appear. The usual surge of power that raged through his muscles was gone, too.

“Killer Queen!” he shouted again with more urgency. Still nothing.

_ Shit, shit, shit! _

He noticed for the first time the small mirror hanging on the wall. Next to it hung what appeared to be a uniform: a tan jacket with a white shirt and pants. He groaned in disgust; this was clearly not Valentino, or even low-end Perry Ellis. At least the leather boots appeared well-conditioned, a small blessing.

Returning his attention to the mirror, Kira rose to his feet, knees shaking. He was terrified to look at his own reflection. It was the first time in years he’d actually been afraid! Yoshikage Kira feared nothing! But this, this could be the difference between a bad dream and a true nightmare. 

Digging his nails into his palm, Kira exhaled and faced the mirror.

His reflection, as expected, was someone else’s face, but there were many similarities. A blond combover, neat and trimmed, and the same piercing blue eyes. Wonderful bone structure. But this man’s jaw was wider, something that evoked a pang of jealousy in Kira. He definitely could use a facial, however; his skin was sallow and dull, the result of long nights and a lack of circulation from not stretching enough. Someone to shape the eyebrows, too.

_ Still handsome, though _ . That was a relief. If he’d been placed into the body of someone hideous, then...He didn’t want to think about that. He was taller, too, and broader, by the way his body felt and the size of the clothes. Not bad. He rubbed the fabric of the jacket between his fingers; sure enough, low-quality canvas. There was an odd emblem stitched on the jacket’s breast - a shield, with two wings. He traced it with his finger, wondering what it meant. He’d never seen it before.

“Commander Smith!” A clear voice and a sharp rap at the door sent Kira reeling. He was only dressed in a nightshirt, and certainly not prepared mentally or physically to speak to anyone. He tore off his nightshirt and snatched at the jacket.

“One moment,” he called out, his voice deeper than he remembered. Another pang of envy.

The person appeared to obey his order, so he pulled on the uniform and made sure everything appeared neat and smooth. “Come in,” he said, catching his reflection and patting down an errant hair.

The door opened and a small redheaded woman entered wearing the same tan jacket. She held a stack of papers and had that same bright-eyed enthusiasm that he constantly saw on the faces of office ladies, the ones who blathered on about television and pop idols and dates-

_ Wait _ . He looked at the papers again, or, in actuality, the hands holding them. Slim tapered fingers with seashell-pink nails met a milky palm. Dainty wrists that would snap easily. They were smooth, without spots or wrinkles. Flawless.

“Here’s the report you requested,” she said, handing it to him. He noticed the little white speckle on the center of her left thumb. She cocked her head a fraction. “Did you sleep poorly? You look pale.”

Kira shook his head, trying to appear professional. “No, I’m fine.” He beckoned her inside. “Shut the door.”

A confused look passed over her face, but she complied. She was much smaller without the papers to shield her.

“Um, Commander, I heard shouting a few moments ago. The killer teen? Did Eren do something?”

_ Commander _ . The word sent a chill down his spine, both thrilling and terrifying. He ignored what she said and tossed the papers onto the stack already at his desk with a chuckle. “It’s nothing.” He flashed her a warm smile, the same one he used to disarm and ensnare beautiful women. It worked every time. Even if this was a dream, why not have a little fun?

She clasped her hands to her chest. A faint pink blush spread across her face. He extended his hand, as if to caress her cheek

“Ah...C-Commander?”

And then his hands were around her neck, the crush of her windpipe surging into his fingers and up his arms and straight to his core. Shocked, her knees buckled. The pink flush turned a deep red. Her eyes bulged and animalistic sounds escaped her bubbling lips but he was staring at those delicate hands, clawing and straining at his grip. It was so pointless! She was far too weak!

Too quickly her grip slackened and her arms fell to her sides, the life draining out of her. One last breath seeped from her lips onto his hand, causing the hairs to stand on end. Kira laid her down softly to avoid drawing any attention from anyone downstairs, and because he liked to consider himself a gentleman. He knelt beside her, taking one still-warm hand in his own. He stroked it tenderly before kissing it. “I’m so sorry, but I’m sure you’ll be happier with me this way. And I apologize for not asking your name.”

After crossing her hands together over her chest, Kira stood and picked up the report he’d tossed on the desk. It was addressed to Erwin Smith, Commander of the Survey Corps, titled “Full Report Addressing the Circumstances Regarding Trost.”

_ Perfect _ , Kira thought while gritting his teeth. In his normal life, he’d rather cut off his own arm than join the military. And not only did he somehow slip right into the body of a commander, but one who lived in what could quite plausibly be some medieval storybook. Ridiculous. He didn’t even like those stories when he was little.

He stepped back to the window. The people outside, all in the same uniform he wore, were continuing their training. Though Kira exercised five times a week without fail, this looked difficult. They all appeared rather wiry and had strange metal contraptions strapped to their hips. Though his new body appeared healthy and muscular, Kira grimaced and wondered about the risks of tetanus. 

_ Lives in storybooks are supposed to be peaceful _ , he thought bitterly. This seemed anything but.

A soldier with dark glossy hair leapt onto a platform, a streak so fast he wouldn’t have caught her if he’d been a moment too soon. A red scarf fluttered at her neck. It was just like if his hands squeezed around her neck so tightly he’d split her skin and burst her blood vessels. A nerve twinged close to his stomach. She must have hands as stunning as that hair.

Kira took a deep breath, holding it in for eight seconds. This really was helpful; the psychiatrist was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed her.  _ Oh, well, everybody makes mistakes _ .

Everything would be fine. He’d wake up soon enough, but if not, he’d spend his time finding every beautiful woman and gracing them with the pleasure of his company. There must be beautiful women here. Storybooks were full of them. And, luckily, being a commander obviously meant he had privileges. The opportunity wouldn’t be wasted. Maybe it was time for that vacation he kept telling himself he’d take.

Kira smiled at the dead woman’s body, and wondered where he could find a serrated knife.


End file.
